


Christmas Will Still Be Here, In Sickness And In Health

by firstdegreefangirl



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Baking, Best Friends, Buck is sick, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Cookies, Cooking, Fluff, Getting Together, Laundry, M/M, Quite Literally, Sick Character, Sickfic, Soup, To-do lists, Winter, but Eddie takes care of business anyway, he won't let Eddie take care of him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:34:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28447758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstdegreefangirl/pseuds/firstdegreefangirl
Summary: “Uh, did I know you were coming over?” He’s pretty sure that he didn’t, if only because he would have texted Eddie to cancel when he woke up feeling this crummy.“Nope,” Eddie pushes himself down from the counter, crosses the room to take the bags from Buck and set them on the kitchen table. “Did I know you were on death’s door?”Or, Buck has come down with something terrible, and Eddie insists that he take it easy. But that doesn't mean his chores don't get done.
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley & Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 252
Collections: Buddie Discord Secret Elf 2020





	Christmas Will Still Be Here, In Sickness And In Health

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nilshki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilshki/gifts).



> Here's what I came up with for the discord Secret Santa exchange! From the tumblr prompt "I should probably be at home sleeping off this terrible cold, but there's so much to do for the holidays. No, I don't need help."
> 
> This was _so much fun_ to write. Honestly, can't believe I kept my mouth shut about it this long, but now I can _finally_ say something about it!

Buck sniffles as he pushes his cart into the line for the self-checkout, stretching almost all the way back to the produce department. He coughs into his elbow, the hacking noise loud enough for the woman in front of him to turn around and glare. He tries to look apologetic but can hardly find the energy for it as he swallows around the sawdust feeling in his throat. 

His head feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, stuffed with cotton so he can’t quite sense everything going on around him. It’s not even surprising to him, is the thing. He’d felt it coming on a few days ago. But it’s already into the first days of December, so he’d had no choice but to power through. 

No measly cold is going to stop him from having his holiday season. 

It might slow him down a little bit, he thinks as he leans his weight onto the handle of his cart, nudging it forward to brace against the corner of the drink cooler so it won’t give out from under him, but he’s got to keep going. 

He looks down at his purchases, the cart brimming with ornaments and giftwrap, light-up yard décor and strings of LEDs. There are enough baking supplies to stock a full display case, including three separate kinds of chocolate chips. 

But the child seat is filled with very different groceries. He’s got a multipack of tissues, the biggest bottle of Dayquil the pharmacy sells, tea bags (not decaf, he’s checked three times, his mind too foggy to remember if he’d already looked) and all of the ingredients for chicken noodle soup. The good kind, from scratch, like Maddie taught him to make. It’s her cure-all, the magic remedy for all of life’s maladies, and one of the only things Buck can stand to eat when he doesn’t feel well. 

And today, _doesn’t feel well_ is the understatement of the year. 

Buck manages a smile, though, at the new mug carefully nestled between the celery and the egg noodles. Another mug is the last thing he needs, but the dinosaur had caught his eye, holding a tiny mug of its own. The caption proclaimed it a “tea rex” and it’s the first time he’d laughed all day, so he figured it was a sign from the universe. He may not need _a_ mug, but he needs _this_ mug. 

He’s sick, sue him if he wants to indulge himself this one little thing. 

But the line still hasn’t moved, and he can feel the last of his energy waning. It’s too late to back out now. Besides, he needs these things if he’s going to accomplish his goals for the afternoon. So as much as he wants to abandon his cart and go home right now, he stays. He leans more bodily on the handle of the cart, though, and reaches for his phone. 

Maybe Eddie can help him kill a little time. 

_They need an xpress lane 4 people who feel gross,_ he texts. 

_**Dude, go home and lay down. Rest.** _Eddie’s reply is almost instant, the typing dots appearing before Buck has even dragged his thumb away from the screen. 

_Can’t. 2 much 2 do._

_**Can’t it wait?**_

_**Take care of yourself, man. Me and Chris need you.**_

All of a sudden, his chest goes tight and Buck feel himself warming up. 

Great. Now he’s pretty sure he’s got a fever too. 

The line drags forward, and Buck drags himself with it. There’s nothing left to lean his cart against, so he’s forced to stand upright. Or, as upright as he can, given the circumstances. But he still needs to text Eddie back. His thumbs dance over the keyboard before he settles on the pleading face emoji, and the one of a single dad and his son. 

Eddie doesn’t reply, and Buck scrolls aimlessly through his email inbox until there’s a scanner available for him to use. He checks out quickly, knows that as soon as he’s out to the Jeep, he can sit down for a few minutes. His car seats have never felt so comfortable before, but Buck knows it’s probably less about the leather and more about his bone-deep exhaustion. He considers a drive-thru, thinks about a soda to perk himself up a little bit. 

But knowing his luck, the line would be halfway around the building, and he just wants to be at home. 

So he keeps driving. His focus is careful, determination making up for the way he can’t convince his brain to focus perfectly. He gets the big things, though, the red lights and the cars around him, until he’s turning into his driveway, pulling up alongside Eddie’s truck. 

Eddie’s … truck. 

He’s not sure why, but Buck is pretty sure that should strike him as odd. And when he gets into the apartment, a handful of plastic sacks digging into the skin of one arm as he struggles to get the key in the lock without toppling over, he _knows_ it’s odd to find Eddie sitting on his kitchen counter. 

“Eddie?” Buck sneezes and sniffles before continuing. “What’re you doing here?” 

Belatedly, he realizes that his question had probably sounded rude. He grimaces and tries again. 

“Uh, did I know you were coming over?” He’s pretty sure that he didn’t, if only because he would have texted Eddie to cancel when he woke up feeling this crummy. 

“Nope,” Eddie pushes himself down from the counter, crosses the room to take the bags from Buck and set them on the kitchen table. “Did I know you were on death’s door?” 

Hands now free, Buck turns back toward the door. There’s at least one more trip worth of stuff to carry in, probably two if he paces himself. But Eddie’s hand stops him. His fingers are cool where they wrap around Buck’s forearm, soothing the dull throb left behind from the bag handles. Something in Eddie’s expression stops him from going back out to the car, so Buck shifts gears and rummages through the sacks until he pulls out the tea bags and his new mug. 

He puts the kettle on, and only once the burner has started to hiss does he turn around and look at Eddie again. 

“Really, it’s not that bad.” But his body betrays him, choosing this exact moment for a coughing fit. He’s hacking loudly, his chest heaving under the force until he can catch his breath. “Just a cold.” 

It’s painfully obvious that Eddie doesn’t believe him. 

“And if you want it to _stay_ just a cold, you need to _rest.”_ He slides the box of tea out of Buck’s hand and drops it on the counter. Buck’s not sure how it happens, but the next thing he knows, Eddie is pushing on his shoulders, hardly needing any effort to drop him onto the couch. He presses the back of his hand against Buck’s forehead. There’s a sarcastic comment floating somewhere in his mind, just out of reach, something about the dad-move and Eddie taking care of him. 

But before Buck can wrap his head around the words, Eddie hums cryptically and walks away. 

“10 minutes, that’s it!” Buck calls after him, resisting a groan at the way the words rattle against the inside of his skull. “I have to get back to it if I want to keep up with Christmas.” 

“You’ve still got almost three weeks,” Eddie is coming back now, a steaming mug in each hand. “I’m sure Christmas can wait for you to feel better.” 

“It really can’t, though. I’ve still got like a dozen things on my list.” Buck takes the mug Eddie offers, tucking himself further into the corner of the couch with a heavy sigh. Eddie settles into the chair next to him, rests his elbows on his knees as he blows across the top of his own mug. 

* * *

Eddie hates tea, is the thing. He can’t stand it, with any amount of honey drizzled in; it still just tastes like leaves. But he knows Buck, and he knows that Buck won’t drink his own tea if Eddie doesn’t have a mug too. 

And Buck looks like he really needs it today. So Eddie will sip alongside him, make sure Buck takes care of himself _before_ his to-do list. No matter how many things he has left to check off. But he knows there’s no use in trying to convince Buck to leave it for another day. 

“Let’s take a look at it,” he says instead. 

“What?” Buck asks, a light cough punctuating his argument. “Eddie, I’m not making you do my chores.” 

“Nope, you’re not. Now, what’s on the list?” 

“I don’t need your help.” It’s a token protest, and Eddie knows it. Buck is exhausted, hardly showing a modicum of his usual enthusiasm. And his forehead had been warm when Eddie felt it. He’s been a single dad long enough to know what a fever feels like, even a mild one. 

“Did I say you do?” Eddie raises an eyebrow and sees an opportunity to lean forward and abandon his mug on the coffee table. “Maybe I’m just looking to fill some time in my afternoon.” 

“I’m sure you can find something better to do.” 

“Better than helping my best friend get into the holiday spirit?” He shrugs. “I don’t think so. C’mon, let’s see that list.” 

Buck doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and Eddie worries that he’s going to keep trying to argue, leaving Eddie to push back that he really _does_ care, doesn’t mind helping out when Buck needs him. 

He’ll never mind helping out when Buck needs him. God knows Buck has been there for him, every step of the way, and this is his chance to repay a small amount of his gratitude. But only if Buck is willing to let it happen. 

Finally, though, he waves his hand vaguely in the direction of the front door. 

“’S in the car. With the other bags. I’ll get it.” Buck leans back, looking for the leverage to push himself to his feet. He only succeeds to rock himself back and forth a bit, though, before Eddie is standing in front of him, arms folded across his chest. 

“No, you won’t. I’ll be right back.” Eddie swipes Buck’s keys from the table, but is unsurprised to find the Jeep unlocked when he gets out to the driveway. The front seat is filled with bags, rolls of wrapping paper leaning up from the floorboards. He arranges all of the bags on one arm, straining his wrist up to keep them from sliding off. 

There’s a wadded-up piece of paper in the cupholder, both sides covered with Buck’s scratchy handwriting. One side is a shopping list, appearing to match the items in the plastic sacks. Eddie flips it over as he closes the door, checking that the back of the paper is the rest of Buck’s tasks for the day. 

It is, so he locks the Jeep and starts back up the driveway, scanning over the list as he goes. 

_Ornaments on banister. Lights around railing._

He pushes the front door open. 

_Laundry. Make soup. Cookies: dough. Roll and bake. Choc. Dip._

Most of the goals seem straightforward enough, a reminder to eat the soup, and four check boxes next to the word “laundry.” Eddie piles the bags on the table and wanders back into the living room as he finishes scanning the list. 

_Yard deer, Rosewater - TD, vacuum, soap/towels._

OK, so he’ll have to ask Buck a couple of questions. But still, almost everything looks doable as he sinks back into his seat. 

“This isn’t so bad …" he mutters, looking over the tasks again. “Nah, I can manage this.” 

He’d been talking to himself, mostly. But he should have known better than to assume Buck wasn’t listening. 

“I told you, I can get it all.” But Buck sounds even more drained than he did 20 minutes ago. Eddie sighs. 

“And _I_ told _you_ that I’m helping.” He looks down and reads the first item off of the list out loud. “’Ornaments on banister.’ I think I can make that happen.” 

“Lights go first,” Buck insists, and Eddie can see that he’s giving in. “They’re on my bed. Two loops between every railing.” 

“But you wrote ornam-” Eddie looks up, but sees that Buck is going to try and take care of this himself if he doesn’t play along. “OK, sure. Lights first.” 

Eddie goes up to the loft, and sure enough, there’s a string of multicolored lights neatly wrapped around itself in the middle of the comforter. 

“They plug in at the top end,” Buck calls up, as Eddie turns the cord over in his hands. “Should be on the outside of the wrap!” 

And sure enough, it is. Eddie plugs the lights in to make sure he leaves enough length to reach the outlet, then starts wrapping them carefully around the railing. Twice between each support, just like Buck had instructed, a series of neat loops illuminating the steps. 

When he reaches the last step, he winds the last few inches of the cord around the front edge of the banister and tucks the end in neatly. He turns to Buck for approval, finds him laying with his head propped on one end of the couch and a blanket tossed across his legs. 

He’s not asleep, not quite, but definitely getting the rest his body needs. 

“Buck,” Eddie says his name quietly, waits for him to look up blearily. “How’s this look?” 

“Hm? Oh, ‘s good.” Buck sighs, and for a moment, Eddie feels bad for disturbing him. “Two loops?” 

“Two loops,” he confirms. “Am I using the ornaments on the table?” 

“Yeah,” Buck sits up, tucking his knees into his chest as Eddie crosses the room. 

He retrieves the tubes of ornaments from the table, dumps them all into a sack to hold as he decorates the rest of the railing. 

Eddie has worked hooks onto the tops of almost half of the ornaments, hanging them from the cord of the lights, before Buck stops him. 

“You’re hanging them in order, right?” His voice is nasally, like laying down had clogged his sinuses up again. 

“I don’t know, maybe?” Eddie is suddenly thankful for his years in the Army, the way he still remembers how to listen to orders without showing his frustration, no matter how irksome he finds them. Especially when he knows Buck hadn’t ever told him what arrangement he wants. Still, he sighs. “What’s the right order?” 

“Red, silver, swirl, silver, red, silver, swirl.” Buck yawns as he finishes. Eddie looks back up the stairs and rolls his eyes, groaning internally. 

He’s hung them wrong. He’d started with a silver ornament, grabbed at random from the bag. Then a red, swirl, and another silver, starting the pattern over. Eddie remembers helping Chris with his homework a couple of years ago, laying out patterns with spare change on the kitchen table, and is pretty sure that he’d label this an ABC-ABC pattern. 

Why it matters, he doesn’t know. But it does, apparently, so he climbs back up the steps and unhooks the progress he’d made. This time, he’s careful to get the order right, exactly the way Buck himself would have done it. When he’s finished, he has to admit that it looks nice, neat and orderly, but festive. Still, he’s not entirely convinced that the pattern itself had made any difference. 

It’s done now, though, and Buck nods approvingly when Eddie looks his way. He picks the list back up from the end table and scans over it, trying to make a plan for what’s left. 

Laundry. That’ll take a while, with lots of downtime in between, so he should probably start at least the first load before he does anything else. (This is somewhere he’s been burned before, not using the time while the washer runs to work on the next task, wasting half of his afternoon waiting for the buzzer to go off. He’s learned his lesson.) 

At least Buck has things pre-sorted, so all he has to do is move the wet clothes to the dryer and dump the next hamper in. Once the load is tumbling around, Eddie takes a deep breath and braces himself for the next thing he knows he needs to get done. 

“Alright, how about those cookies?” 

There’s a recipe, at least, printed in a cookbook that Buck has left out in front of the microwave. Buck must sense Eddie’s hesitation (he can hold his own in the kitchen, but baked goods are usually best left to his friend Betty Crocker), because he insists on stationing himself at the kitchen table to watch. 

Eddie acquiesces, if only because he could probably use a second set of eyes, but exiles him to the opposite end of the table, “so you don’t infect the batter.” 

“Dough, Eddie. Cake batter, cookie dough.” Buck rolls his eyes, but still tells Eddie where he’d set the butter out to soften. 

It’s a slow, arduous process. But they work at it together, Eddie following both the recipe and Buck’s directions as best as he knows how. He can handle the basic measurements, a teaspoon here and a tablespoon there, but when Buck instructs him to ‘add a dash more vanilla, it’s the real secret here, trust me,’ he ends up scrambling for a paper towel to absorb some of the excess off of the surface because ‘I said a dash, not a monsoon!” 

They’re both having fun, though, laughing at the miscommunications and confusion abound. And there are many, from Eddie responding to ‘beat the egg’ with ‘at what? I didn’t think we were competing,’ to the realization that he doesn’t actually know how to measure flour. Apparently, you can’t just scoop it out of the bag with the measuring cup, as he learns when Buck nearly falls out of his chair in his rush to stop Eddie from pouring the cup into the bowl. 

He has to dirty another spoon, just to scoop the flour, and almost slices his thumb open when Buck tells him to use the flat side of his chef’s knife to level it off. 

But they manage, and Eddie still has all 10 digits intact when he stretches the plastic wrap over the top of the bowl and sticks it in the fridge. By this point, the dryer is beeping loudly, so he gets Buck situated back on the couch and hauls over the basket full of warm clothes. 

“I’ll put them in the wash for you, but I draw the line at folding your underpants, dude,” he says as he drops the load onto the coffee table. 

It’s not entirely true, and Eddie imagines that Buck has to know that; if he really needed to, Eddie would fold the clothes too. But he’s never liked folding the laundry; half the weeks, he dresses himself out of the clean hamper and calls it good enough. And this way, Buck has something to occupy his time, let him feel like he's helping Eddie get the list done. 

Besides, Eddie knows he can handle the soup on his own. He’d seen the ingredients as he put the groceries away to have space for the cookies; Buck had to be planning some sort of chicken noodle. It’s an easy enough soup that Eddie could make it almost with his eyes closed. Broth, boil, spices, veggies, shred the chicken and serve. 

But he knows he can do better than that. He remembers his abuela, the first winter he and Chris were in LA, when they both caught the flu the same week. She’d all but moved into his little house, taking care of everything while she nursed them both back to health. And he remembers the soup she’d made, too, flavorful and citrus-y, with just enough heat to help open their heads up. 

As soon as he could stand on his own for more than 20 minutes, he’d begged her to teach him the secret. Well, he would have begged, but it hadn’t taken much convincing at all. It’s become one of his favorite meals, and the only thing Chris will eat when he’s sick. 

So Eddie pours the broth into Buck’s biggest saucepan, adds just enough water to cover the chicken breasts and sets it to boiling. He uses the time to chop the carrots and onion, and raids the freezer for some corn to toss in. There’s lemon juice in the fridge, and he pokes through the cabinets until he finds where Buck keeps his spices. Instead of the noodles he’d found, Eddie throws in a cup of rice, shakes in some garlic, dill and a little bit of chili powder, and puts the lid back on. 

The next part, he knows, is the hardest. Because the soup has to simmer for at least an hour before he shreds the chicken and adds the veggies, to get all the flavors incorporated. But the house will smell _incredible_ when he comes back inside, and that will be worth it. 

Because he has no idea what ‘assemble lawn deer’ means, other than that it’s probably something to do with the boxes Buck had left on the porch as he made his way inside. Sure enough, he’s purchased a trio of light-up, wire-framed deer. 

Some assembly required. 

By Eddie, apparently. 

He sighs, standing up from his crouch, and heads back into the apartment. He knows where Buck keeps his tool kit, and figures he might as well cut to the chase. He’s assembled enough kids’ toys over the last few years to know that nothing ever snaps together without screwdrivers and wrenches involved (and one time, duct tape. But he doesn’t talk about that one, and is just thankful that Chris was young enough to believe that Santa had gotten the addresses mixed up, but he’d checked the Elf Tracking Number and his last present was on the way. Two days later, he’d bought a new one and things were _fine.)_

It turns out to be easier than he’d thought, just to hook the halves of the body together and connect their lights. It takes him a few tries to find a wrench the right size for the little bolts that came taped to the instruction packet, but he eventually realizes that there’s a little aluminum Allen key in the bottom of the box, perfectly sized to the bolt heads. 

Proprietary sizing is going to be the death of him, he swears, but from there things move quickly. All three deer plug into each other, so he only needs to track down one outlet. Luckily, there’s a pair of them right next to the front door, so he pushes the plug into the socket to check on his handiwork. 

When the deer turn on, Eddie is immensely thankful that Buck is still inside the house. 

No one told him they would _move,_ and for a moment he’s convinced that the heads are falling off. Which doesn’t actually make sense, because the front half of each deer is molded from a single shape of wire mesh. But he’s watching from the corner of his eye, just trying to make sure the lights turned on, and then the heads were dropping, so there was really only one logical assumption. 

But they’re moving back up now, and when Eddie turns his head to look closer, he realizes that they’re motorized. It’s all good, he didn’t somehow destroy Buck’s brand new yard decorations just by putting them together and plugging them in. 

He takes a last look, then unplugs them. It’s still broad daylight, after all; he’ll come turn them back on when the sun sets. For now, he goes back inside, stopping by the pantry to flip the laundry over and deposit another load for Buck to fold. He takes the folded laundry upstairs, stacking it neatly on Buck’s bed amidst the protests that Buck is perfectly capable of putting his own laundry away. 

“I know, but I was up there anyway,” Eddie says as he comes back down the stairs. “Couldn’t remember if there was carpeting to vacuum.” 

“Nah, it’s really just the living room,” Buck waves at the space around them. “You can skip that; I’ll get it tomorrow.” 

“No worries, man,” Eddie’s already plugging the appliance in. “It was on the list for today, right?” 

He flips the switch, letting the vacuum drown out Buck’s response. Not that it would matter what he says; Eddie knows he’d listed it for today, and he’d told Buck that he would help mark off everything on his list. 

By the time he’s made it back and forth across the rug, making sure he gets every inch, the spicy smell of the soup is making its way in from the kitchen. Still, Eddie gets out the broom and sweeps the hallway, kitchen and entryway before he washes his hands and lifts the lid off of the pot. 

He’s not even sick, and just the smell of the soup makes him feel better than he did two minutes ago. As he pulls the chicken out with a pair of tongs and sets about shredding it into chunks, he thinks about how much good it’ll do for Buck and his cold. Probably a lot, especially when he finds out that it’s Abuela’s recipe. He dumps the chicken back into the pot and stirs it all together, letting the veggies warm through, but spoons out two big bowls before they can get mushy. 

Buck must have been paying attention, because Eddie turns around to ask if he wants to eat on the couch or find his way into the kitchen, and finds that he’s already sitting at the dining table. He sets one bowl in front of Buck and settles himself into the seat around the corner. The soup is still steaming hot, so Eddie blows gently across the top of his spoonful, and sees Buck doing the same before he takes his first bite. 

It’s perfect, not quite hot enough to burn, but spicy enough to leave a pleasant tingle in its wake, and filled with the rich flavors of the spices and lemon juice. Eddie sighs around his spoon, relaxing under the comforting taste. 

Buck groans and tips his head back, eyes fluttering shut. 

“OK, I have no idea what you did to this, but you win. You cook one thing better than me.” 

Eddie shrugs. 

“What kind of an Abuela would she be if she never taught me to make chicken soup?” 

Buck’s eyes widen at that, and he makes a questioning sound, but Eddie just nods. The meal continues without conversation, both of them too wrapped up in their soup to talk. Even as the bowls cool down, the heat from the chili keeps warming them both up. Eddie can see the effects it’s having on Buck, putting some color back in his cheeks and perking him up a little bit. He’s also dabbing at his nose with a napkin, which tells Eddie that he’s used enough chili powder to make it effective. 

When both bowls are almost empty, Eddie shifts back in his chair and digs the list out of his jeans pocket. 

“Oh, by the way, what the hell is a rose water? You don’t have a garden.” He unfolds the paper and slides it toward Buck, pointing at the offending item. 

_Rosewater – TD_

He’s been wondering about it all afternoon; it’s the only thing on the list Eddie isn’t sure he knows how to handle. He’s well aware that Buck can’t keep plants alive, so he knows it doesn’t mean “water the roses,” but that’s the only guess he’s been able to come up with. 

His confusion only grows when Buck starts laughing quietly. 

“It’s water, with a floral aroma from the infused rose pet-” Buck must see the look on Eddie’s face, because he gives up trying to define the word and starts over. “It’s a cooking thing. I need it for a candy I want to make.” 

Buck interrupts himself and recoils, taking short, ragged breaths until he throws his arm up and sneezes so hard that his chair rocks back onto two legs. He wipes his nose and sniffles before he finishes. 

“I’ll order that later. It’ll be quick on my phone; I’ve bought it before.” Eddie nods, only giving in because he knows he probably wouldn’t be able to order the right thing. Clearly, Buck needs something specific here, and Eddie didn’t even know what rose water _was_ until five minutes ago. 

Doesn’t really know now, if he’s honest. Just that it’s something for cooking. So Buck can take that, while Eddie finishes something else on the list. 

He puts the dishes from lunch in the sink, makes a note to rinse them out and load the dishwasher later. But first, he’s got to preheat the oven and get the cookie dough out of the fridge. Buck tells him where to find the rolling pin and something called a ‘baking mat,’ and points at the drawer he says will hold a two-inch cookie cutter. 

Eddie rummages through, careful not to draw blood on any of the numerous sharp-looking kitchen gadgets, until he comes up with a round metal blade. 

“This one?” 

“That’s the three-inch. They won’t set up right if they’re too big. The middles will be too soft for the coating.” 

His argument makes enough sense, so Eddie digs through a little more. But even he can tell that the next cutter is too small, probably an inch across. 

“How do you have so many of these, and none of them are the right size?” he grumbles, going for the third sweep. He finds the middle-sized cutter, wedged way at the back, between a meat thermometer and a plastic canister of toothpicks. When he holds it up triumphantly, Buck applauds lightly and they both laugh. 

The next part, he’s done before. Granted, he usually uses store-bought dough, but he’s helped Chris roll it out smooth and cut different shapes from it. So he knows what he’s doing, even if he thinks Buck is insisting that the dough needs to be a little bit thinner than Eddie would have rolled it out, if left to his own devices. 

Still, these are Buck’s cookies, so he follows along and keeps his opinions to himself. Clearly, they’re doing something specific with these cookies once they’re baked, and he trusts Buck to know what he’s doing. 

Or, what he’s telling Eddie to do. 

Either way, he listens to Buck, follows the orders and punches out dozens of tiny circles. They’re small enough that he only need three cookie sheets to bake them all, and as soon as the timer is set to rotate them partway through, he pulls the last load of laundry from the dryer. 

There’s not much else left for him to accomplish, so this time Eddie drops down next to Buck and grabs a pair of jeans from the top of the pile. 

“Thought you said you weren't folding my clothes,” Buck side eyes him as he tucks the ends of a T-shirt around. 

“You’re on your own for the underpants, dude,” Eddie reminds him, laughing as he bumps their shoulders together. 

They finish the folding, and Eddie stacks the clothes on the bed with the rest before he flips the cookies around. They’re just starting to set up at the edges, and he’s pretty sure that’s what cookies are supposed to do when they bake, so he thinks they’re on the right track. 

Other than finishing the cookies, there’s only one thing left on the list. 

“Soap-slash-towels,” he reads when he gets back down the stairs, then looks across to Buck. “Is this like … some special towel wash? A soap just for the towels?” 

Buck rolls his eyes. 

“Dude, you just washed like half of my towels. No, it’s the seasonal towels and winter hand soap for the kitchen and bathrooms. I can get them tomo-” 

“Where are they? It’ll just take a minute, right? I’ve already done everything else.” 

Buck sighs, and Eddie wonders if this is the thing where he pushes too far. Maybe he should have let Buck take care of the towels tomorrow; maybe this is making him feel helpless? 

But then he’s coughing again, hard enough that Eddie has to wait for him to catch his breath before he can respond. 

“Hall closet,” he says, still gasping a little bit. “Second shelf for the towels, soap is up top at the back.” 

He follows the directions, and not five minutes later, there are festive hand towels hanging from every towel bar, cinnamon and peppermint soaps sitting beside every sink. 

Not two minutes later, the oven timer beeps and Eddie pulls the cookies out. They’re perfectly golden, and Buck nods and smiles when Eddie carries a tray over carefully and holds them out for him to inspect. 

“Perfect. Now we just have to let them cool and melt the chocolate.” 

Buck talks him through a double boiler, letting the water simmer underneath the chocolate chips, just enough to melt the blend of dark, semisweet and milk chocolate chips. By the time it’s smooth and runny, the cookies are cooled off enough for him to handle. 

At Buck’s instruction, he dips half of each cookie in the chocolate, letting the excess drip off until he can set it carefully on the wax paper without smearing it onto the uncoated side. There are almost five dozen of them, and some of them definitely turn out better than others. He drops a couple of them face-down, covering the entire front side in the chocolate, accidentally sticks his thumb in a few others, trying _not_ to drop them. But by and large, he’s impressed with himself. And he thinks Buck is impressed too, from the way he’s smiling as Eddie sets the last cookie down. 

“And that was … the last thing on the list,” Eddie mutters as he marks it off. He drops the list onto the table in front of Buck and taps on it with one finger. 

“Not quite. But Buck picks the paper up and folds it in half, tenting it on the table in front of him. “There’s one more thing.” 

Eddie turns his head, furrowing his brow, but he feels his expression soften when Buck coughs harshly. 

“Didn’t I mark everything off?” He passes Buck a glass of water. 

“Eddie. Seriously? No one puts ‘eat the misshapen cookies’ on the list.” Buck rolls his eyes, sniffling as he reaches past Eddie to pull one of the lopsided cookies off of the wax paper and bite it in half. His next sentence comes through a mouthful of crumbs. “But it’s almost as important as the baking.” 

Eddie picks a cookie of his own – the one that had landed face down, because it’s got more chocolate coating than the rest – and nibbles the edges. 

He has to admit, they’re fantastic. By far, the best cookies he’s ever made. He’s always known there’s more to baking than rolling out the grocery store dough, but Eddie had never imagined that _he’d_ be able to bake cookies that taste this good. 

Buck stands up, taking another cookie, and wanders his way back over to the couch. He’s visibly worn out, even though Eddie had taken on most of the work throughout the afternoon. Eddie watches him, moving slowly but steady on his feet, and wonders just how far Buck would have pushed himself if Eddie hadn’t come over. 

He probably would have done everything himself, ended up even sicker tomorrow, exhaustion compounding his cold symptoms. Eddie hates to think about it, about Buck being more willing to jeopardize his own health than admit that he needs some help. 

Eddie sighs and flips the burner back on underneath the kettle. He doesn't know when Buck took his last dose of cold meds, but he knows how long he’s been here. The sun is starting to set, and Buck hasn’t taken anything since he got home from the store. 

So while he waits for the water to boil, he retrieves the bottle of Dayquil from the grocery sack he’d moved over to the kitchen counter. He measures the dose out as the kettle whistles, drops a teabag into Buck’s mug from earlier, and meets him in the living room. 

Buck blows his nose again, a sound Eddie is becoming all too familiar with this afternoon. But when he sees Eddie come back, holding hot tea and a medicine cup, his face lights up, even if his nose is starting to chafe from the tissues. He swallows the medication, washing it down with a careful sip of the boiling-hot liquid. 

Even though the medicine is supposed to be non-drowsy, it only takes a couple more swallows for Eddie to see that Buck is drifting off. His eyelids are drooping, his hand shaking lightly as he lifts the mug. 

Eddie reaches forward carefully and slides the tea out of Buck’s grasp. He sets it on the table, then takes Buck’s shoulder gently and guides him to lay down with his head propped on one arm of the sofa. Buck goes willingly, so far out of it that Eddie can’t be sure he even knows what’s going on. He’s almost completely asleep before he’s even situated, but murmurs something too quiet for Eddie to make out as he drapes a snowflake-patterned blanket over him. The white blanket stands out, the bright blue flakes popping against the dark colored sofa as Eddie smooths it over Buck’s shoulder. 

“Shhh,” Eddie bends down and brushes a kiss across Buck’s forehead. “Sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake up. And Christmas will still be here.” 

He does, and it is. 

And so is Eddie. 


End file.
